


Like a Homicidal Knight in Bloodstained Armour

by Tricki



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: British Journalists, F/M, Politics, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 13:18:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9822353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tricki/pseuds/Tricki
Summary: Malcolm, despite his private approach to his Shadow Ministers and MPs, objects in the strongest terms to journalists addressing them without using proper terms of address.  He is allowed to call Nicola Murray anything he wants, up to and including ‘the most incompetent, retarded fucking excuse for a politician since that brain-dead Australian just sat a fucking iPhone in his seat’.  The media, on the other hand, has him to answer to if they address her as anything other than ‘Mrs Murray’.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place between season three and four. Protective Malcolm was fun to write. Smug Nicola makes an appearance. Please have fun. I did.

The hack packs are not a rare occurrence outside the opposition rooms.  In fact, Malcolm is reasonably certain that there must be totally fuck all for journalists to do at the moment, because for once, for a brief, shining, glorious few weeks, Nicola fucking Murray, of all people, is leading a semi-competent Opposition.  Alright, maybe this is partly because one of the government MPs has just been caught in the back of his Ministerial car with a hooker, and the PM’s just accidentally popped a sleeping pill rather than a lozenge (likely bloody story), resulting in him falling onto Mary Drake’s lap mid-speech.  Very fucking bad look.  So bad, in fact, that Malcolm momentarily wonders if there is a higher power, because these are the kinds of government cock-ups he would pray for.  Of course, these are such major problems that even Nicola can’t cock up the required government bashing.  Even a Lilliputian pony with a chromosome disorder could manage to land a kick squarely in the head of a PM who passed out in a Minister’s lap.

 

The problem is, this month the hack packs have been getting bolder.  Malcolm is, on one hand, fine with this.  On another he is highly averse to situations being outside of his control, and he is rapidly losing the ability to control situations such as these.  Coming back from Shadow Cabinet today one reporter in particular is positively _begging_ for Malcolm’s fist to make contact with his face.  Nicola passes through with a demure smile, a little wave and a nod, uttering the words “You’ve all been invited to the four forty press conference, I’m happy to answer any of your questions then.” 

Her words are met with a cry of “Mrs Murray!” from ninety percent of the assembled media, and “Nicola!” from the remaining ten percent.  Malcolm, despite his private approach to his Shadow Ministers and MPs, objects in the strongest terms to journalists addressing them without using proper terms of address.  _He_ is allowed to call her anything he wants, up to and including ‘the most incompetent, retarded fucking excuse for a politician since that brain-dead Australian just sat a fucking iPhone in his seat’.  The media, on the other hand, has him to answer to if they address her as anything other than ‘Mrs Murray’. 

Things get worse, though, when that same journalist whose face Malcolm wanted to rearrange earlier (the one with the gap tooth and the stench of sour cream and onion crisps permeating the air all around him) grabs Nicola by the arm.  Nicola, Malcolm is astounded to see, has a rare moment of behaving like a professional, and does not react visibly.  Malcolm does.  Grabbing the stocky journalist’s arm, Malcolm barks “What do you think you’re doing?  Get yer fucking hands off of her.”  He separates them, shoving the journalist backwards and slipping in tightly behind Nicola to navigate her through the crowd.  Nicola can _feel_ how much he wants to unleash an absolute tirade of abuse, can hear his brain whirring with every diatribe he is withholding.  “Jesus, she’s the next Prime Minister of Great Britain, show some fucking respect!”  Malcolm bites out over his shoulder, before shoving Nicola soundly in the small of her back and mumbling “Now you fucking _move_ away from Hands Christian Raperson over there.”  Internally she winces, praying no one heard the comment.  She’s actually not doing terribly for once - for _once_ \- and the last thing she needs is the whole of the UK’s media reporting that not only does her Communications Director swear at journalists in public while on the record, he also swears at _her_ in front of journalists while on the record.  Of course, Malcolm’s mouth is infamous amongst the entire British political class, but it is usually reserved for private abuse.

With Ollie and Helen close by, Nicola squeezes her way through the pack towards the gate, and slips through with Malcolm tight behind her. 

Malcolm’s hand remains against Nicola’s back until they’re back in the building, and were there less things swimming around her head, she would stop to analyse this.  Malcolm generally doesn’t touch her, yet here he is, swooping in to save the day like a homicidal knight in bloodstained armour. 

Nicola, without speaking, continues towards her office, only making a sound when she hears Malcolm’s footsteps hesitate and halt behind her.  She calls his name over her shoulder, her tone flat, giving him no clue as to what she intends to say to him, what she is thinking.  It’s unusual, really; Nicola Murray is seldom a woman who can keep _any_ -fucking-thing to herself, even when it’s a matter of national security. 

After Malcolm has closed the door behind them, she wheels around, and he expects her to be angry, to shout at him for losing his composure so spectacularly in front of representatives from almost every news outlet in the country.  Instead, her eyes sparkle with wicked amusement, as if she knows something he doesn’t (which is impossible, obviously).  Her expression grows, spreading from her eyes to her mouth, which curves into the most lovely of grins.  There is a liberal dash of triumph in her face; Nicola looking like she has the upper hand (again, an impossibility).  Still pondering whether or not to speak, Nicola opens her mouth, reconsiders, and catches her lower lip between her teeth, worrying it gently while staring intently at him.

“Oh, fucking out with it, Nic’la, I’m trying to bring down a fucking government here.  I don’t have time for you to - ”

“You were being protective of me.”  She says, cutting him off.  He wants to analyse why her eyes are sparkling so, wants to know whether this is because she thinks she has something over him, or because she is, god fucking forbid, reading this as some kind of sign that she thinks he would pay her one single iota of consideration outside the confines of their professional relationship.  Both of these are absurd propositions and he is dying to verbally lacerate her over her misapprehension, yet something makes him wait, makes him want to see where she is taking this. 

“Christ in a Christmas cracker, Nic’la, be a grownup.  Some fucking hack journalist grabbed your arm, I’m your Communications Director.”

“Yes, and Communications Director Malcolm can normally keep his thoughts on reporters to himself until we’re back in the building.”  Her words are pointed, challenging him to something but he’s not sure to what.

“I was doing mah fucking job, alright?  That’s all.  Don’t you go getting any ideas in that air filled head of yours that that was anything more than me trying to salvage enough of your dignity so that people can vote these rancid Etonian foot-lickers out and us back in.”  She blinks, assessing the benefits of ‘foot-lickers’ as a term over one of the more expected of Malcolm’s insults.  Is she missing a genuine reference to the penchant of the current Prime Minister?  She’s not sure.  “If I had my way we’d have a one legged Kewpie doll leading instead of you, Nic’la.  It’d cause me less fuckin’ aneurisms and it’d be less shit in interviews.”

“Protesting too much.”  Nicola mumbles, glancing at a stack of letters on her desk that need signing and shifting them into a neater pile with her fingertips. 

Malcolm glowers at her and snaps, “Look, you believe whatever the fuck you need to t’keep yerself wet at night.”

Nicola holds his gaze, corners of her lips still kicked up with a note of victory.  “And you deny whatever you need so you can still get it up in the morning.” 

The Scot mumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like ‘fuck off’, before turning to go.  The sound of Nicola’s voice halts him “And Malcolm?  Never speak to me like that in front of the press again.”

“Fine.”  He snaps, turning again and muttering to himself as he goes, “As long as they keep their fucking hands off you.”

 


End file.
